Duggie Finn Part 1

Duggie Finn

Duggie sat on a high stool and waited for the barman to take his order. He knew the barman had spotted him soon as he came in, but wouldn’t hold his breath for a quick service. Duggie was spotted as soon as he went in any place. He was five foot nine inches tall and as skinny as a rake.  His hair was greasy, black, and cut badly. The skin on his face was pocked from a life time of spots and bad diet. On his feet gleamed a set of brand new Nike Airs. He wore a track suite zipped all the way up, despite the heat, and a baseball hat pulled low over his eyes. In short he looked like trouble from the cradle to the grave.

When the barman couldn’t put off serving him any longer, he reluctantly wandered towards Duggie and asked, "What will it be?" his voice dripping suspicion.

"Pint bottle of cider, glass, and ice, bud," Duggie said. Duggie's words were pulled long by his inner city accent, like chewing gum stuck on a shoe. It was a flat, North Dublin, drawl. He got no friendly chit-chat from this barman, who was too long in the business to be innocent. The man would clearly prefer if Duggie were anywhere, other than sitting in his bar. The barman popped the bottle cap and plonked it on the counter before taking the tenner left resting on the counter for him. The barman rang in the sale and dropped the change back on the counter beside the dewing bottle of cider.

Duggie waited a second or two before calling "Hay Bud! That was a twenty spot I gave yea."

The barman glanced over his shoulder and growled "Fuck Off," without even missing a stride. Duggie shrugged to himself, it was always worth a go.

It was early Sunday evening and the bar was busy. There were people all over the place, eating and drinking. Duggie never got the whole gastro pub thing, a pub was for drinking, if you were hungry go to the chipper. Simple pimple. There were all kinds of people here, being in a city centre, you tend to get a real mix of customers. Duggie's eyes flicked over the tables looking out for a soft score. A wallet poking out of a pocket, a jacket left alone, or his favourite, a handbag hung over the back of a chair. Nothing was looking promising at the moment so he decided to sip his drink and wait.

A bellow ripped across the bar "AAAHHH Here, leave it out!" followed by raucous laughter.

The noise was caused by a blond woman who was about five foot two. Her voice so rough, she must gargle with razor blades. She seemed to have only one volume, deafening. Although small in height, she was carrying so much swinging fat, she looked like someone had rammed an air hose inside her tee shirt and inflated several swimming rings. She was waving a pint glass around as she recounted something funny to the rest of her group. There were three couples sitting at the table and they all looked like they had been drinking since breakfast. They were typical Dubs, everything was big, big personality, big hair, big jewellery, you name it. They seemed to be made of too much, far more than could be contained in a human body.

Beside the table was an empty child's buggy. The kid was running around the place without anyone keeping an eye on him. These parents went in for the free range school of child rearing. The floor around the table was littered with new toys and torn cardboard boxes. The little fella looked about four. He began tugging at the blond woman, but she never looked in his direction, she just used her free hand to brush away the annoying distraction around her feet.

"Mom, mom, mom, MOM!" he balled, now annoying everyone else within earshot. In the end, she picked him up and dumped him back in his buggy, before shoving a massive bar of chocolate and a bottle of coke at him. It was clear to anyone the kid was bored, tired, and cranky. The last thing he needed was more junk food. It appeared a four year old had more sense than this mother, as he threw the drink across the floor and roared with frustration while his parents continued to ignore him. In the end, it all got too much for man a few tables away.

"Missus shut that kid up will yea," the man yelled in the direction of the group.

"He is only a kid, what's he doing to you," the mother shouted back, her face scrunched up with indignation.

"He is wrecking my head, that's what he is doing," the man replied. "Flipping do something about it, this is a pub not a crèche."

The blond woman's husband decided it was time to defend his brood, "What are you saying about my young lad?" he growled. His heavily tattooed hands transforming into fists, to highlight his meaning.

"I’m saying nothing about him, you on the other hand, should not be left in charge of a hamster, never mind a child," came the response. You had to admire the bravery of this guy. The kid’s father looked like he ate crushed glass for breakfast. The bar man reached under the counter drawing out a short baton and held it by his leg. None of this was missed by Duggie.

"Hey you lot, cut out the shouting," he called, but far too late.

The blond woman's husband launched himself at the group of men that were complaining. Soon both tables were trading punches, the women pulled hair, none of them giving a shit about the kid. Duggie saw his opportunity and walked by a table lifting a handbag, while the owner was watching the commotion. He shoved it under his top and strode for the door.

On the way out, he took a look back at the scene that was unfolding. Duggie saw the kid crawl under a table while it rained smashed glass, spilled beer, and blood, all around him. It was as if he were looking at himself twenty years ago. He knew the loneliness of a life begun under the shadow of drink and stupidity. Deep down he hoped this little lad wouldn’t end up like him, but didn’t like his odds. Time to scarper, the coppers would land soon.

***

Duggie walked casually to next laneway, where stripped the cash from the bag and dumped the rest in a wheelie bin. There was an I-phone in the bag worth a bob or two, but they are all tracked these days, not worth the hassle. Duggie ended up clearing nearly two hundred quid from the bag, not a bad result. The driving force behind everything Duggie did was not greed, it was Heroin, Horse, Smack, Gear, whatever you like to call it. Without it, Duggie descended into the seventh circle of hell. He did not like steeling but it was the only way he could survive. When Junk had a hold of you, you did anything you had too, without a second thought for the consequences.

Today was a good day, he’d shot up the last of his gear when he woke up this morning. Duggie had floated through the first few hours without even noticing he was awake. Now, he was on the way back down. He was still feeling okay for now, even so, he was already getting anxious about what was coming, and where he would get the cash for his next fix. He would do anything necessary to feed the monster, what’s a handbag or two to the likes of those people, he thought.

Getting gear was always a problem but it wasn’t his biggest problem today. His big problem was Rob. He had been dealing weed for Robbie for a few months now, it was a handy way to make a bit of money, but the problem was, when Duggie had money, it seemed to just vanish from his hands. The last few times he was due to meet Robbie, he had no money at all left, so he just dodged him. Word was out, Rob had enough of Duggie and was looking to collect, one way or the other. It was a threat looming huge in his mind. Robbie was not the kind of guy a right minded person would mess around.

Duggie spent the next few hours drifting around the city streets. He managed to dip a few more bags in the ILAC Centre and he broke open a cigarette machine in the back room of a bar while the staff were occupied in the lounge. He took as many packs of smokes as he could, as well as filling his pockets with change. He flogged the cigs to people on St Stephens green. By the end of the day he had just shy of four hundred Euro. He was starting to feel sick, his skin was beginning to itch, and the shakes were coming back. It was time for his next hit. Duggie scurried off to James's street flats, were his dealer lived.

When he reached the flats, Duggie went under the brick arch into the inner court yard. Court yard was a very fancy term for a laundry strewn pit of discarded rubbish. Shopping trolleys, old tyres, and a burnt out car were a few of the artefacts to be found littering the area.

"Oh Douglas," called a deep male voice from just behind him.

Duggie spun on his heels, two very large men, also in track suits, were blocking the arch he just come through. Behind them Duggie could see the doors of a black BMW standing open. They must have been watching the entrance, waiting for him to turn up. Duggie knew these guys, they were leg busters for Robbie, and they loved their work.  The Golden rule of live as a druggie is simple, it’s ‘Run!’ The problem was too where? There is only one other exit from the courtyard and it was at the far end of the complex. Duggie vaulted a toppled shopping cart and ducked under a washing line, dragging sheets off it as he passed. The bruisers were right on his heels, but Duggie was built like a greyhound and nearly as fast. He getting away from them as he reached other archway. From the shadows, a figure emerged to block his escape. Duggie had no choice but to stop, it was Robbie, who wasn’t as big as the two behind him, but much more dangerous.

"Rob. I did not know it was you," Duggie panted, jerking his thumb over at the two men who were now directly behind him. "I thought these two were Blanket Bacon," which was slang for undercover cops.

"Never doubted it for a moment Duggie," he said with a smile. "Just step into my office for a minute," he said holding out his arm indicating the darkness of the archway. Duggie guts knotted and he realised his time was up.

"Have you got something for me Douglas?" Rob asked, backing Duggie up against the curved wall, the top of his head making contact with the rough brickwork. Duggie pulled the wad of notes he had accumulated during the day from his pocket and handed it to Rob. Sweat was streaming down his face, partly due to the possibility of death and partly due the cravings starting to rage through his body.

"Your light," said Rob, after a quick count. "Where’s the rest?"

"That is all I have, I swear to God. Give me a few days, I'm good for it."

"This will just about cover the petrol I spent looking for you. Are you trying to screw me over? Do I look like a bitch to you?" Rob said, slapping Duggie hard for emphases. The back of his head bounced off the brickwork.

"I’d never do that Rob, I’d be mental to try anything like that," he pleaded. "Things just got away from me."

"More like you shoved it in your arm, you junkie piece of shit," one of the men chipped in from the side. He had lit up a cigarette and was blowing smoke rings.

"We could drop him out to Wicklow for you, boss?" said the thug with a diamond stud in his ear. The Wicklow Mountains were littered with shallow graves, filled with sad cases just like him and Duggie knew it.

"Jesus there is no need for that, I’m just a bit light," Duggie cried.

"You made me run Douglas and I hate fucking running," said Mr Diamond.

"Now, now, boys. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Douglas here still owes me money. If he’s fertilising a bog, how is he ever going to pay me back? Business first, then pleasure," Robbie said, addressing his hired help, but the message was for Duggie.

"Thanks Rob, I swear I’ll get you every shilling," he said, with relief in his voice.

"You've not heard the terms yet Douglas, don't go thanking me too soon. This-" Rob said, flapping the folded notes, "is a fine for making me come looking for you. I want two thousand more before Friday."

"Two grand. It’s never that much," Duggie said. Rob's free hand shot out and crushed Duggie's face. He slammed the back of Duggie’s head against the arch again, and again, this time the blood flowed down his neck.

"Interest Douglas, Interest. You have till Friday, then it’ll be three grand. You got that?" Rob said, bashing the back of Duggie's head against the rough stone one more time.

"I got it," he mumbled, through crushed lips.

Rob let go of his face and Duggie recoiled expecting to take a dig, but it did not come. The two brutes moved in, but Rob stopped them.

"I think he has the point," Rob said. The look of disappointment on the face of Mr Diamond and Smoke Ring, was comical. Robbie walked away a few paces before turning with a big smile. "Only messing lads, work away."

The first punch caught Duggie high in the stomach, knocking the air out of his lungs. Duggie curled into a ball trying to absorb as much of the beating as he could. It still hurt like hell. He got another good punch under his left eye and could feel it swell instantly. They took turns in pounding on him for a few minutes before Mr Diamond said, "Mat how about doing an O'Gara?"

"Sound," said Smoke Ring, and hauled Duggie to his feet. He grabbed the tracksuit top and pulled it over Duggie's head, so that it trapping his arms, which he followed up with a punch in the solar plexus. Behind Duggie, Mr Diamond was waiting his turn. Duggie's feet were spread wide, trying to keep his balance. They made a perfect target. Mr Diamond drove his foot high and hard between Duggie's legs, smack into the family jewels. The pain was unnatural.

"Right between the posts," laughed Mr Diamond, as Duggie's knees buckled and he collapsed onto the pavement. He vomited anything that was in his stomach, mostly liquid.

"Look at the state of him," said Smoke Ring, backing up from the expanding puddle of puke.

"Let’s go," said Mr Diamond. "Next time Douglas, don't make me run after you." They walked away, confident that no one would say anything, not if they knew what was good for them. The kids in the court yard kept playing, paying no attention at all to the men leaving. To them, this was part and parcel of life. Just another scumbag getting what was coming to him.

Duggie lay in a ball of pain, wallowing in his own puke. At last, the need for a fix got greater than his pain. He slowly, very slowly, got to his feet. Duggie slipped a hand inside his tracksuit bottoms and had a rummage around. Everything was still were it should be, and when he took his hand out, there wasn’t too much blood. He knew he would live. He hobbled back towards town, holding the wall as he went. The search for money had to start again, the search for the next fix. Always searching.

Part 2/4 http://squidmcfinnigan.blogspot.ie/2013/08/duggie-finn-part-2.html

Weird Dream

I had the most mental dream last night. Some of it is lost in the mist of sleep but part I remember vividly.

I was being chased by a man who was laughing like a lunatic. He was wearing a tall black top hat, billowing full length cloak and eighteen hundred's suit complete with pocket watch.  Weird but it gets worse.




He was not chasing me on foot, he was riding a massive wild black boar with curving tusks and foaming snout.

I was running, but not exactly scared. As he got closer he was trying to stab me in the back of the head with a set of deer antlers! Just then I screeched to a stop and turned. A Lugar hand gun appeared in my hand. I casually placed the mussel against his forehead and in a very calm voice said

"Not Clever"

The smile vanished from his face and he looked like a scolded school boy.

I whipped to another part of the dream and remember loading massive brass shells into the Lugar from the base of the handle working them up using the slide at the top. (I have never seen such a hand gun and don't even know if they have a slide) One shot forward too far and I remember thinking, "Now that is going to jam"


Then I was a wake. Any ideas?????

Profile Porkies

I spent some time today on facebook. I like having a nose through the lives of my friends without them knowing. But after an hour I was getting a bit depressed and convinced I was doing something wrong in my life.

Everywhere I looked there were smiling photos at gigs, concerts, clubs, parties and other random days out. People were constantly signing in at fancy restaurants, city breaks or far flung shores. I was getting distressed at the exciting lives everyone was having. I seemed to be left out of the loop on all this frivolity.

It got even more confusing when I came across a post from Liam Daly which said "Having a Fab night at the new Superman Movie with  XXX and YYY" (Names are hidden to protect the innocent).

Liam is the most miserable sod I have ever come across and that is saying something. If there was a world championships of misery Ireland would be unbeatable. I only ever seen Liam smile when he thought of something to gripe about. The locals in the bar have taken to calling him "Les" behind his back. As in "Les Miserables" . In my minds eye I could see him sitting in the cinema complaining about the cost of the popcorn. Droning on about how this new movie was not a patch on the original blah blah blah. Poor X and Y.

It must be a lie. If he was having such a fab time at the movie what the hell was he doing on his phone. If that is a lie, what about everything else. Is it all a lie, the whole flipping thing is just one humungous sham? Facebook my arse.

Why do we really go on to these websites. Is it to catch up with friends and loved ones? The more I think about it the more I am  not sure. Looking at my own time line with a cynical point of view I realised I was putting up things that would reflect well on me. Not always necessarily the unvarnished truth. How may of us think first thing in the morning "I must post a photo of this on my time line". Hair sticking wildly in all directions. Half a beard, mouth feeling like a canary has been nesting there. Peeing blindly in the general direction  of the bowl while snapping away with the old i-phone. I don't think the world is ready for that sight yet.

Just as rarely will you read "Feeling cranky as hell right now & my boss is an Enormous Prick!!!" on status updates.

Such moments are part of life, the majority of it perhaps. We don't roll from one amazing experience to another. Highlights are punctuation points in sentences of mild drudgery. I am starting to think the facebook's of the world are just masks people wear. Wanting us to think that they are living life to the full. Posting pictures in the company of the fabulous people extends beauty to ourselves. Likewise with fame. All this is the search for the grail of popularity.

I am proud to say I have never know a perfect person. If I did, I doubt i'd like them. I love my friends in spite of their faults or even because of them. They must be a forgiving bunch to be friends with me. I have far more faults that I care to admit. Some day's I honestly don't even like myself. Why should others. I think real friends remember your good points even when you have forgotten them yourself. They don't need status updates to remind them that, even though your are being an "Enormous Prick" right now most of the time your fairly sound. My friends are my diamonds, rare and beyond value.

To anyone out there feeling a little less than wonderful today. Take some solace in the knowledge everyone looks crap in the morning and has more down times than good. Take a chance and let someone into your life as a friend. Expect them to let you down a little and be less than perfect. You wont be disappointed.

Blind Date

I just had to share this little story with you all. With my hand on my heart, every word I’m about to tell you is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

Last Friday night, I had a country music band booked for a dance. I'm aware that a lot of people reading this are living across the pond in good old US of A. I want you to put from your minds any thoughts of, Brad Paisley, or Rascal Flats; rocking stadiums full of ecstatic twenty something’s. Country music here tends to attract a more mature audience. Older couples lazily circling the floor in a shuffling three step and last Friday night was shaping up to be no different.

As I got the back bar ready for opening, the band were setting up. Bursts of drum- machine blared out occasionally. Guitars were coaxed into some form of tune. The band was called, Country Kings, but their gear had seen better days. Everything supported a myriad of chips and scratches. No two pieces matched. Cables were held together with miles of Duct-tape.

However bad the equipment was, the two boys using it were in far worse condition. They wheezed as they dragged flight cases out of the back of a battered transit. I was sure that one of them would expire long before the first song played. Their massive beer guts suggested the only exercise either of these guys got started and finished at the elbow.

Like Noah's ark, the customers came in, two by two. Aging couples taking up their regular tables around the small dance floor. Cups of tea, a few soft drinks, and the odd pint was all I could hope to sell to this crowd.

At quarter to ten, the musicians waddled toward the stage with pints filling every available hand. I was glad they had gone from their perch near the bar. One of them had constantly farted, not caring about the nostrils of those around him. I would have said something but I couldn’t figure out which one of them was doing it. With a burst of feedback, they launched into the first song of the night.

As the evening progressed, I saw an older couple who looked at home in this crowd in the company of a younger couple, which I took to be son and daughter, sitting at a table away from the dance floor. What made them stand out was that they were very well dressed for a night at a pub dance. Eventually, the older man came to the bar for a round of drinks.

"Grand evening," I said as I poured his order.

"Sure it is, thank God. Mind you, we could do with a bit of rain soon." Right away I knew he was a farmer. Only a farmer would look for rain during the only sunny day we've had for years. He tone was harsh; you could tell this man was his own boss.

"True enough," I agreed. Being a bar man, I would agree with just about anyone, at least until the cash hit the till.

"Are you on a family night out?" I asked, nodding towards the three still sitting at the table.

"In a way," he said, not looking at all pleased with the fact. "That's our daughter. The lad is her…friend."

The hesitation was hard to miss. I took a look at the uncomfortable looking young lad, he seemed alright to me.

"He seems alright to me," I offered, calling a spade a spade. The old man leaned closer over the bar in a conspiratorial way.

"They meet on the internet. His name is Simon."

"That's nothing strange these days. I hear a lot of people are doing this internet dating. I was nearly going to give it a go myself," I say, trying to make the old man feel a little better about things. "How long have they been together?" I asked.

"They only just meet."

"This week?"

"No, tonight," he said, without a hint of a humour.

 I was stunned. I put his pint on the counter and had to check. "So they are on a date, here, tonight? Their first date?"

"Yea," the man said, taking a sip from his pint and throwing the young lad a sideways glance. "Me and the missus like to know who is taking our Sharon out. Anyway, this Internet thing is full of weirdo’s," he mused walking away with his four drinks.

I couldn't take my eyes off them for the rest of the night. The hard way the older couple were watching the young man across the table. The young girl somehow seemed less young. She acted like a shy teenager, but her eyes looked downtrodden. She seemed dwarfed by the looming personalities of her parents. The young man looked okay, I'm fairly good at spotting a wrong one. He sat ramrod straight in his chair, you could feel the stress radiating off him. In the end, the young man took the girl for a dance. Her parents never let them out of their sight. At one stage the father actually stood up to watch.

I saw the shame in the girl’s face, but also the resignation that comes with years of dominance. I wouldn't have bet even a bent penny that Simon would brave a second date. Deep down I hoped he would, for the girl’s sake. The romantic in me wanted him to whisk her away to some type of freedom.

Like I said, I wouldn't bet a bent penny.

With Sox

Summer time in Ireland is normally exactly like the winter, except the rain warms up. This year has been a fantastic departure from the norm, with nearly three weeks of unbroken sunshine so far and the promise of even more to come.

I think that the good weather brings out the best in nearly all women. They swish by in flowing dresses, lots of sun kissed skin, long bronzed legs and miniskirts. It makes driving a car near impossible. Well done girls! I know what you'r going to say, they can't all look like that. True, true, but girls are more in touch what brings out their best side, it's a skill that should be applauded. We've all seen the mistakes, laughed behind cupped hands, wearing that dress from five years ago but it seemed to have shrunk, or bedraggled cardigans over dresses made of discarded nuns' habits.  These examples only help to prove the rule. 

With that said, the Irish men of summer are a different breed. Mother of divine heaven, what happened to the men? At the first glimpse of sunshine, any guy who thinks he's got a half decent body whip's off the top, parading about with his t-shirt draped over a shoulder, or tied around his waist. I wish I could tell them how huge a mistake this is. Firstly, that skin hasn't seen ten minutes of sunshine in its entire time on the planet, it's whiter than the arctic snow. The sight of this, topped off with tufts of bum-fluff-chest-hair, will not make a woman go weak at the knees, or at least not with desire.

Another thing. What's with the walk? Yesterday all these lads could manage make it down the road like normal people. Today the council are out widening footpaths to make room for the swinging shoulders, puffed out chests and held in tummies. A beer belly is a beer belly whether you hold it in or not. Take a hint from the fairer sex on this one. Less is more.

Grand, get a bit of sun on that alabaster skin, but do it in your own backyard or at the beach. I must admit I've fallen victim to this in younger days but I hope I've learned from my mistakes. When you see a beautiful woman in a flowing skirt and crisp linen shirt, you have a fair idea what is underneath. Like in a good book, the hint of something lets the imagination take hold. A wistful picture more alluring than reality can achieve.

This brings me to my next bone of contention. WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU WEARING!!!! On a particularly warm evening my bar looked like a team of blind drag queens had gone riot in TK Max. Mad colours, bold patterns, nothing matching. Every pair of shorts look like they were made for someone either two feet taller or in some cases two stone lighter. One abomination had surpassed himself, he was kitted out from head to knee like Michael Jordan's midget albino cousin, then to finish it off he was wearing black leather shoes, and SOX! I wanted to poke my eyes out with a sharp stick.

Don't generalise, Squid, I hear you say. Guilty I'm afraid. There are some very stylish men out there and I am super jealous of them. They have the eye, and confidence, to know what looks good. They brave the jibes of the ignorant of multi-coloured buffoons. Sadly I don't live in their camp either. I've had my fashion disasters, time to hang my head. 

So, who am I to give advice? No one, but it seems everyone has an opinion these days, I like to stay with the crowd. In general I'd say I'm a tad dull. My resolution is to watch the best dressers and take a few hints, to learn from my betters and I encourage the bare chested out there to do the same. In the end its all a bit of fun. People should be happy in their skin, or clothes, whatever guise they take, but draw a line at the sox, for the love of God.

The Mix Tape

A girl came into my pub today, not this one, but the photo reminds me of her. We got chatting at the bar, while she had a cup of coffee. She was charming, funny, intelligent, and not so difficult to look at. We discussed books, movies, and music. I asked her what the first record she ever bought was? She looked at me like I had two heads.

"Do you mean CD?" she asked, genuinely

At that stage I realised two things. I actually did mean record, the shiny black disks I loved and stored in orange cases, during my youth. The second, was that this girl was a completely new generation to me. Both, were sad realisations.

As you do, when talking to beautiful young ladies, I covered up my gaff as best I could.

"Sure, CD, or even Download," I bluffed, and we went on from there. The conversation was vibrant, her smile flavoured her voice with cinnamon kisses. Her eyes laughed, and hinted at nights of abandon, not for me sadly, but some other lucky man, more like her. When the time came for her to leave, I felt real sorrow.

When she was gone, the bar was quiet and while I cleaned around the tables I thought again about the CD-record blunder, and the gulf that it represented between her generation and mine. For her, it will be all about download speeds, on line share sites, play lists, I-tunes and headphones. I don't get the emotional attachment that's possible with a download file.

I still remember my first record, I won't tell you what it was, because I would be embarrassed. But that record was my treasure, my precious. I played it eternally on a portable record player, which happened to be red. I only ever touch the edges, with stiff, careful, fingers. I would blow any dust from the groves, hold it to the light inspecting for new scratches, before laying a needle to the delicate vinyl. Each new scratch I found, hurt me as if it had appeared on my heart, rather than the vinyl. I had gathered an extensive record collection, until I had to leave home for college. The was the one down side of leaving home, moving all that with me, was just not an option. You went to the mountain, even if you were Mohammad.

During my college years, records were soon replaced by tapes. Much more transportable, thanks to the, "Walkman". Even still, I only had twelve tapes to keep me company as I moved from Dorm, to Digs. The intimate knowledge of making a mix-tape will mark you as a child of the 80's.

I loved mix tapes. I’m sure everyone did, in some form. I think this love was directly proportional to the time we had to put in to make them. The feelings in our heart directed each song to be picked. Always with the intended recipient at the front of our minds. Waiting by the radio, with fingers hovering over the record button, waiting for the damn DJ to shut up and stop talking over the intro. I’m sure they were doing it on purpose, to frustrate the legions of hormone-infested teenagers, putting angst into musical form.

We made mix-tapes for girls we fancied. Picking each song to give her subtle hints that screamed, " I THINK YOUR HOT!!!" As if giving someone a mix-tape wasn’t hint enough. We made tapes for making out, we made tapes to bring to parties, (only cool songs on these even if you hated them). But mostly we made tapes to ease a broken heart. Songs were picked, like music for a funeral mass. Once the tape was finished, it would play into the night, sending me too sleep with dreams of missed love.

These tapes the were perfect balm to spread on the wounds of romance, some of the scars still remain today. "Brass in Pocket," is my all-time favourite, and most used, breakup song.

My thoughts followed the girl from the bar and I wonder about her life. I wonder what things will be remembered as precious in her future. To be sure, they will be different than mine, but I imagine the building blocks will be the same. Each failed romance having an anthem, just the DJ's will be less of a nuisance. I smile to myself. I envy the one she might make a play-list for…but you will never beat a mix-tape!

Happiness V Fulfilment

Happiness or fulfilment. I think I have been getting them confused lately. I thought, if my life was fulfilled then I would be happy. I was thinking about this while I walked my dog's in the wood today and realised they are two very different things. I believe they are both vital but in very different ways.

"So what is the difference?" the crowd enquired. 

I think, fulfilment is an ambition for the future, a goal that we set ourselves. This goal gives us something to strive towards and organise our efforts around. I know from my own experience that steps on the way to achieving many goal's are often hard, tedious and sometimes downright unpleasant. It is the end result which holds the promise of fulfilment. We are industrious little animals, us humans. We need some aim in our lives no matter what it is. I think our mind's need this focus.

Did I not mention happiness? I am fully convinced that these two, seemingly identical emotions, exist on completely different plains. Happiness, true happiness can only exist in the moment. The now. This is where I feel I have let myself down. I have been failing to fully enjoy the moments as they happen, the small one and the big ones. To make best use of them I think I need to abandon the past and the future. Exist only in the moment and take all it has to offer.

Which delivers me to the crux of the issue, balance. If they are both important, which is more so? Where should the balance lie? Okay, the answer is easy, I haven't a notion.

The old saying "to much of anything is bad for you" is very true. I seriously doubt that running around hugging trees or cooing at butterflies, like some demented hippy will lead to a lasting happiness. However, taking a few moments each day to enjoy what the world is showing us can do a lot of good. Without a plan we  are in danger of letting the days slip by with nothing to show for them.

We can't all fly to the moon or climb Mount Everest. No goal is more important than another. What matters is how important the goal is to you. Time is fleeting and I have no idea how much of it I have left in the tank. My goals are set, and journey has begun and believe it or not, if you're reading this, your coming along for the ride. Hold on, it might get bumpy.

 

The new normal

The question, what is normal. Did you ever have the feeling you just don't fit in. I have had it all my life. Yesterday was driving along in the car it was a fantastic day. Sunny but not too hot. The radio was tuned to a talk show with a very interesting guest.

He was talking about social interaction. How things that are unacceptable become acceptable once the perceived majority are taking part. Germany for example in the late 30's. People now wonder how the normal citizens back then allowed the terrible acts that took place each and every day. The answer seems to be that the perceived majority appeared to be involved in these acts (even if they were in fact a small minority) so it became the norm and the citizens feeling of guilt and unease were therefore abnormal.

What this radio guest said next got me thinking about all this. He said that the fifth addition of listed medical mental conditions is due to be published and it is now massive. It is expected that 50% of the entire population of the world could be classified under one or more of the listed conditions. This begs the question, which half will end up the norm. This guest also had a very good explanation for this dramatic rise in mental conditions.

He puts forward that when people existing in a "bubble" or a closed in sphere of either mental attention or human interactions they start to make decisions that become more and more introspective. Such as people researching mental issues. They spend days and days looking for brain problems. Low and behold they find one, that leads to finding another then another and another. Somewhere in this daisy chain they have crossed over the universal line of the normal but are unaware of it. I think this same thing has been happening with Health and safety legislation and the legal profession for years.

Driving along in my car I jumped back a few decades in my mind and wondered what people would have thought of all this. Back then if you were a little different you were a character. If you were a lot different you were "Some character".

Do the powers that be want us to give up all creative and individual impulses. Were we all to become a huge heard of sheep. Anaesthetising ourselves with massive amounts of TV, on line gaming and fast food. I think we have lost sight of what is important in life. We are too tied up in tat and possessions to live a life that is fulfilling. Even though i am putting this out in a blog I feel the Internet is also being taken over with mindless rubbish. It is sucking the hours out of our days leaving us isolated and eventually alone.

In my humble opinion we should embrace the non normal ideas, let them free to see where they take us. I would bet that the vast majority would find this liberating and actually good for there mental health. There will be a few that go to far and there always have been. We should not stifle the many for fear of the few. So go on, you know you have your own quirks. I bet you have them hidden away in a safe place deep in your mind. Why not let them out for a little bit, take them for a walk in the sunshine and let them breath. Why not it's official now, no one is normal.  

What Love looks like

The first time I knew love was a moment I shall never forget. It was one of the most important moments of my life and the two people involved never even saw me. Thinking back, I am not exactly sure that they did me any favours, perhaps I had better explain a little bit more.

I was twelve or thirteen years old and travelling to England from Ireland on the ferry. Excited by the prospect of adventure and a tiny bit sea sick I went wandering the deck during the middle of the night. As the ship ploughed through rolling waves, I lurched around the dim and deserted boat, trying as best I could to look like I belonged. The sting of salt spray on my face was uncomfortable and exhilarating at once. The dim running lights of the ship held no power over the all-encompassing gloom of a mid ocean night. The waves rose higher, causing me to wonder if being on deck was all that wise, but wisdom and youth rarely sit well together. I wandered on, swaying side to side, hands firmly driven into my coat pockets, far too cool to use the hand rail. After walking around for a time I found myself on the top deck, looking into a near deserted lounge through a sea spray speckled window. That was when I saw them.

So young, but older than me. They seemed to shine in the way no light could in the dark of a mid ocean crossing. They had an exotic hue to their skin, far too tanned to be Irish, perhaps Spanish or French. She had long dark hair past her shoulders and was very beautiful. She wore a short green jacket with a wool jumper underneath and jeans, comfortable but stylish in the way a movie star must in dress the hours before a scene is shot. The man was just as dashing, his chin coloured with stubble, and unruly brown hair fell to the shoulders of a leather jacket. Their beauty was undeniable but that was not the quality that changed my heart forever. It was the way they were together and alone at once that struck me dumb.

The Girl sat on a bench with a book in her hand, the man slumbered, his head nestled in her lap. In that perfect moment I fell in love, not with her or him but them.  It was the intimacy that they shared which captured me so completely. Even in that public place it radiated off them like heat from the sun. As she read, her fingers teased and rolled the locks of his hair. Slow languid movements. As he slept she cared for him, watched over him and protected him. To each other they gave themselves, willingly and completely. Such an innocent movement of her hand was far more tender than any poem I had ever read. I don't even know if she knew she was doing it. In truth I hope she didn’t.

I stood outside that window and watched. The ocean spray carried on the wind, glistened like tiny diamonds as it landed on my clothes. I was mesmerised, I couldn’t take my eyes from that couple. I wanted what they had. The connection to another so strong, so close that you aren’t even aware of it, until it’s broken, like having a limb taken from you. In the end I found my family asleep and unaware that I had been changed. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was feeling. I felt happy excited and a little sad at the same time. Right then I wasn’t even aware how big an impact these people had on me. But that image has never left my mind. Over the years it come now and again reminding me what I found that day on a windswept deck in the middle of a dark a dismal squall. Love, pure and simple.